Where are the words?
It’s as if my soul has gone to sleep…
The words I want should stem and stream from the heart,
the creative centre of me.
But that is somehow cold and still…
A void, instead of a magnificent vortex.
It’s not as if I have no words…
I can be mechanical – sucking up the sounds around me
then puking them back out,
in some sequential semblance of order.
But the words I seek should well from within,
whereas instead, the well is dry.
Or if not dry exactly,
then certainly stagnant, devoid of sensibility.
But in bemoaning my sterility,
ironically I am writing myself out of it.
I find the words flow –
connecting and colluding to form this entity of a poem.
Maybe my write self doesn’t need to feel the muse after all.
It’s all there,
and so my soul is speaking after all.